Morning dew clung to the blade as Arthur lifted it to shoulder height. The
training yard smelled of damp earth and pine warmed by sunlight. He held his
breath, tightened his grip, then—like flipping an invisible switch—let gravity
around the blade collapse. The sword felt as light as a branch, its swing
curving like a bird's wing.
At the final moment before the cut ended, he shifted the weight back onto
the edge. A heavy thud cracked the air. Two stone blocks lined up as
targets split like dry bark; fractures zigzagged across their surfaces, dust
rose, and bats scattered from beneath the roof beams.
Arthur turned his wrist, letting the sword rebound into guard. Light in
my hand, heavy when they receive it, he thought. If he mastered this
tempo, he could cut through ranks in a single breath.
From the edge of the yard, Marcel watched silently. Behind his calm face,
memories surfaced like faded murals: a boy too small for his sword, training
until his palms bled, refusing to stop even when night fell. You've come
this far, young master, Marcel murmured inwardly. If only your teacher
still lived… he would be proud, and frightened, of the swing you carry now.
Beside him, Boris stood stiffly, thumb pressing against his index finger—a
nervous habit. He swallowed hard at the sight of the shattered stone. If
his strike were misjudged by even a fraction… this floor might collapse. The
king I serve wields a terrifying power. And I must be worthy to stand beside
him.
Arthur ended the sequence, planting the sword a quarter-deep into the
ground, the tip still trembling. "What is it?" he asked without turning.
Marcel took half a step forward but tilted his chin at Boris. It was his
turn.
Boris drew in breath, steadying his voice. "Your Majesty, the Diplomatic
Council reports Riverbend has not delivered the thousand kilograms of grain.
When pressed, their reply… was refusal. They claim the pact was made by King
Alden without the nobles' voice. Since Alden is dead, they do not recognize
it."
The morning breeze seemed to pause. Arthur lifted his gaze from the sword,
eyes flashing not with anger, but with a cold resolve.
"The pact was made in Riverbend's name, not Alden's," he said evenly, each
word laid like a stone. "Whoever sits the throne, the obligation remains. Send
a formal warning. Record also that Valoria has reported this violation to the
Council of Unified Kingdoms in Veritas. Their reply must be sent to the Council
as well. If the Council receives nothing…" He stopped, staring at the cracked
ground. "…we will consider them absent. The rest is between us and them."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Boris answered. His hands trembled slightly—not from
fear, but from the weight of responsibility. I must not fail. Marcel trusts
me. The King trusts me. I must be as sharp as that blade—not to cut, but to
carry out orders.
Arthur pulled the sword from the soil in one smooth motion, no dirt
clinging. "One more thing, Boris."
"Your Majesty?"
"Prepare a replacement for Cici. Quickly. My inner circle must remain
stable."
Boris bowed. "At once, sire."
Marcel glanced at Boris as he withdrew, pride flickering in his eyes. You
are no longer the boy trembling behind me. You are becoming a pillar.
Evening settled into night. The corridors smelled of wax and cool stone. In
his chamber, Arthur sat at the bed's edge, watching the flame of a small
candle. Clara sat beside him, her nightdress simple, black hair flowing loose.
Fatigue lined her eyes, yet the clarity within them still felt like home to
Arthur.
"Clara," he said softly. "If Riverbend keeps refusing, I will march. This is
no longer about grain. It's about the honor of a promise."
Clara gazed at the flame, then nodded once. Her voice was steady, like glass
set gently on wood. "I understand. My father no longer leads. Those who rule
now… are not the same."
Arthur clasped her hand. "There is something else." He drew breath, choosing
words like stepping stones across a river. "I intend to take Cici as a
consort."
Silence dropped. The candle cast wings of shadow on the wall.
Clara closed her eyes a moment. Inside, jealousy and understanding clashed,
but what surfaced was quiet strength. Cici… I have seen the way you look at
him. The same gaze as mine. You hid your story behind smiles and small duties.
You nursed him when he burned with fever in exile, mended his wounds when the
world turned cold. I cannot pretend I don't know. She opened her eyes and
smiled faintly.
"I suspected as much," she said. "I agree. Only… be fair. Do not leave me
walking alone."
Arthur's tension melted into warmth. "Fair?" He leaned closer, eyes meeting
hers. "Even if it's two against one in our nights… I can manage."
Clara stifled a laugh, cheeks warming, and rested her head on his shoulder.
They needed no more words. The candle flickered, as if blessing a covenant
older than politics: the loyalty of two hearts keeping each other whole.
Before sleep, they spoke lightly of small things—Ciolove growing alive
again; children chasing kites through the market; an old merchant proudly
scribbling taxes after learning to count at the new school. Little things that
made war, if it must come, feel heavier—because there was now so much to
protect.
The next morning, two couriers departed the northern gate. Lean horses,
light saddles, pouches sealed with golden wax. On their backs glowed faint
runes of wind, stretching the breath of the horses. Dust rose, then fell; the
stony road stretched endlessly.
Two days later in Veritas, the hall of the Unified Kingdoms Council rippled
with restrained voices. Marble floors reflected banners; sigils of other realms
hung like watching eyes. Valoria's seal was broken, its red wax snapped. The
secretary read aloud:
"Valoria reports: Riverbend refuses payment of one thousand kilograms of
grain. The pact was made in Riverbend's name, not solely by King Alden. A
change of throne does not void the obligation."
Whispers burst softly. Veritas delegates arched brows—impressed by the
precision. Northhaven envoys exchanged glances—smelling opportunity. Solaris'
envoy folded arms, hiding a thin smile. The chair struck his gavel. "The matter
is recorded."
Four days later, in Riverbend's palace, the council of nobles buzzed not
with shouts but with smoldering murmurs. Windows stood open, yet the air
remained stifling. Valoria's warning was read. Arthur's words—formal, firm,
never pleading—marched across the chamber like soldiers.
"The pact between Valoria and Riverbend is a pact of kingdoms. Riverbend's
reply must also be sent to the Council. Failure will be deemed absence."
An old noble with sunken eyes struck the table. "We will not be bound by
vows we never voiced!" Some cheered, some stayed silent, others stared at the
floor. A young noble muttered, almost drowned out, "Yet that vow saved us when
Solaris invaded…" His words were lost to louder verdicts. The reply was written
coldly: the pact invalid, Alden had acted alone. Pens scratched like blades
across parchment.
Two days later in Veritas, Riverbend's letter was read. Some delegates
laughed, but without mirth—like men hearing thunder and pretending not to fear.
The council chair closed his eyes briefly before speaking. "The Council leaves
resolution to Valoria and Riverbend. We shall watch to ensure the fire does not
spread."
Four days after that, two scrolls awaited Arthur's desk: papers heavy enough
to shift a season. Marcel read them in an even tone; Boris stood behind, fists
clenched white.
Arthur did not answer at once. He walked to the window. Outside, carpenters
hammered, sawed, and laughed wearily. In his mind's eye, Ciolove glowed—a
market alive, children running, smiles beneath new roofs.
Every letter had a price. The question was: who would pay?
He returned, rolling each scroll tight. A faint smile touched his lips—not
of joy, but of resolve, straight as a drawn line on a map.
"So in the end," he whispered, "they chose this path themselves."
Marcel bowed his head. If war comes, we must keep bread on the people's
tables.
Boris stared at the ground. If war comes, I will stand one step ahead of
the King—ready for whatever he needs.
Arthur drew a long breath, hand resting on the sword by the wall—the same
blade light in his hand, heavy in theirs.
"If we must raise the sword," he murmured, "then it shall be raised to uphold a
promise—not to indulge anger."
Outside, the sun slanted, sewing copper across stone walls. Inside, the
first candle of dusk was lit. Arthur's shadow stretched long across the floor,
merging with the cracks still left from morning practice: a quiet emblem that
power and consequence always walked side by side.